


The King of Shame

by orphan_account



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anonymous Sex, Breathplay, F/M, Mass Effect Kink Meme, POV Second Person, Public Masturbation, Shameless Smut, Stalking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sees her everywhere he goes, and it's driving him crazy. She's around every corner, pressed up and writhing against every turian he sees. Except him.</p><p>F!Shepard/every single turian in the galaxy + more and unrequited!stalker!Garrus/F!Shep for the Mass Effect Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King of Shame

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally orphaned the original when trying to transfer it over to a different pseud and I'm so sorry about that. This is literally the most embarrassing thing. However, this means that I get to go over my earlier chapters and re-edit them for clarity and foreshadowing and detail! Thanks to everyone for all the feedback and love and support.

This space station has turned you into an insomniac. Deep in the Wards, there is no day or night cycle, only dim lights and the constant thrum of far-off seedy nightclubs. Neon signs light the walls and provide helpful directions when you forget your way around. It shouldn’t be so easy to lose your way here; you’ve been here for months.

Your coworkers joke around with you sometimes, asking you how long you’ve been here, anyway.

You give them a vague reply, because telling them “Five months, seventeen days, twenty hours” would make you sound like a homesick loser. You are a homesick loser. You hate it here. You miss your mother and sister (not your father, _not your father, it’s all his fault you’re stuck here_ ) and your home planet.

 

At least Palaven has open skies and real water, unlike the Presidium, with its too-bright artificial light panels and annoying, overly chipper VI tour guides at every turn to harangue and hassle you about the newest shops in the financial district when all you wanted was a simple walk in the fucking plastic park, Spirits, all you wanted was some peace and quiet and the semblance of normalcy in the face of the constant chaos and din of the Wards. Every time you take the elevator up to the artificial verdancy that is the Presidium, your eyes sting and burn from the brightness. At least when you’re going up on yet another bullshit routine patrol, one of your eyes gets shielded from the fluorescent blast by your nonstandard issue, custom-manufactured visor. At least you have that comfort.

Fuck. You could have been a Spectre fighting interstellar crime far away on some dreadnought right now, instead of sitting at a bland faux-wood desk surrounded by unfinished piles of paperwork and miles of bureaucratic red tape. Instead of following your dreams, you are here.

 

On the Citadel.

 

Wasting your youth away at the behest of your father, _who only wants the best for you, Garrus_. You were always such a good son.

 

Next door, you can hear a door whoosh closed. Curious. C-Sec officers are usually required to keep an open-door policy, so as to keep the whole legal process in the semblance of transparency. It’s sort of stupid; you keep your door cracked, as nobody ever really needs to see you face-to-face anyway. All your meetings are video conference calls over the extranet these days, anyway.

As you’re wondering why Whatshisname next door (you met him once, at an orientation, but you can’t remember what his name is. What was it that he did? Was he the C-Sec requisitions guy? You never really needed to visit him, as none of your security guard shit’s failed you. Yet.) would ever really need to shut and lock his door, you suddenly hear regulation armor hitting the floor disgracefully with a loud thunk. You’ve served your time in the turian military, just like every single turian guy in this shithole; you know that “blowing off steam”, as they say, is totally normal. But something about the situation next door seems off, like C-Sec requisitions guy next door’s isn’t just having a casual wank.

 

A female voice cuts through the wall- _oh Spirits, he’s not alone_. You’re such an idiot. You stare out your own door intently, into the empty office across the hall. You try not to listen.

Her voice is familiar. You've seen her before. She got in an elevator before you and you watched the doors close behind her as you missed your elevator, like a fucking chump. Her hair is red and her face is lightly freckled with those markings that some humans have. If she was in your office, you'd fuck her without a second thought, too.

“So, I’ve heard about your,” she pauses for a second, “large weapons supply,” and she laughs gently. Yes, it's definitely her, the girl from the elevator. As a human you once knew, once met in a bar long ago, would say, " _la femme de l'escalier_." You think. You never took the time to download any languages beside the ones pre-loaded into your omni-tool’s translation program. You had no need to, anyway.

 

"Show me what you've got."

 

Guy-next-door's subharmonics are rumbling and they're sending wasted signals of lust and desire and possessiveness to his human. She can obviously tell how he's feeling through other means, though, because you can hear her panting and the muffled thump of chitinous plates on soft skin.

 

This shouldn't be turning you on.

 

You shouldn't be listening to this. This is depraved, wrong, filthy, perverted. You should be focused on work, you should be turning in your forms and taking the rapid transport home. You cover your ears with your hands like a child, knowing full well that it won't change anything. It won’t change how she hisses and sucks her breath deep into her lungs and muffledly moans into her fist when his mandibles clamp down on her shoulder, it won't change the wet noises her cunt makes as he pounds into her. It won't change how your plates are shifting and how your uniform is getting tight at the seams.

Her moans from the office next door assault your eardrums and you try to ignore it, you really do. “Harder,” she whispers loudly in between shouts of pleasure and tiny whimpers of ecstasy, and the walls are so thin it’s like it’s your ear she’s whispering in. Your hips unexpectedly buck in your seat and you curse the Spirits, curse your rotten luck, curse yourself, mentally kick yourself in the shins. It’s been so long since you’ve been with anyone. Been even longer since you’ve felt a woman’s touch, not even a fucking asari trick from the prostitution rings you’ve busted.

 

Your clawed hand grasps a pen as tightly as it possibly can, and you begin filling out as many forms and citations as you can. Whatshisname next door thrusts so hard into his girl of the week that his desk topples over with a resounding crash. “Spirits be damned,” he mutters. His voice grows ever more familiar, but you still can’t remember his name. “I think you just knocked over my entire store of supplies.”

“Come back over and fuck me in them,” she says throatily, and he does. The clatter of guns and armor falling from their neat, orderly little boxes masks the sound of your tiny pencil-cup hitting the floor as you groan and pull at your own buckles.

 

"Oh, god," she babbles between thrusts and moans and whimpers, "I, I love turian cock."

You wonder if she'd love yours just as much, if not more. You think about the depths to which she'd show her devotion, her pink human tongue reaching out and lapping at your ridged cock. You imagine what it'd be like to trail your claws through her hair and push her head down, forcing her down to her knees. Your armor lies in a heap on the ground.

 

She moans into her fist and you can hear how wet she is. The noises she's making are obscene.

The friction between your rough palm and slick cock grows unbearable.

His subharmonics are going crazy and you know he's close. You quietly, unconsciously let out a pant, a breath, a slight chitter of the mandibles.

 

Suddenly, for just a second, everything stops. You realize you've left your office door wide open for anyone to witness your shame through.

Have you given yourself away? Oh, oh oh oh, Spirits.

 

But the hallway stays empty, save her moans and your panted breaths and the soft, irregular rhythm of his hips slamming into his desk.

The walls are paper-thin and you would give anything to change places with your neighbor, the C-Sec requisitions officer. You've completely lost track of time, you have no idea what hour it is. Night and day are one and the same in this hellhole. The moment ends. Your fist is like a vise around your cock, just like her cunt, clamping around his and he's thrusting into her and the walls are like paper. You can hear everything and he's close. You're close but not there quite just--

 

_Yet._

 

Your right hand reaches up to cover your mandibles and you're spasming and coming all over the place, the force of your orgasm hitting you like the butt of a rifle in the back of the head. All those citations you hastily filled out to give you the semblance of a little peace of mind are ruined, completely ruined with splatters of cum, and suddenly you realize that you don't give a fuck. From the room next door, you can hear him pulling out, his cock drenched with turian jizz and human fluids. You wonder if he took an antihistamine, if he'll be walking funny tomorrow. You know she’ll be doing both. In the empty glow of your shameful orgasm, you want to laugh at the thought of it. But then you'd be given away.

She kisses him and leaves, and she doesn't even look your way as she walks past your open door. Your armor lies in a jumble around your ankles under your desk.

 

It's too quiet as you wait for your neighbor to leave and go home, the silence only broken up and punctuated by the occasional thump of the C-Sec requisitions guy, _what the fuck is his name, you know what he sounds like when he comes but you don't even know his name_ , picking up a gun that you will never hold or a piece of specialized Spectre armor that you will never wear and replacing it in its box. You can hear your errant heart beating in your throat, waiting for the ultimate shame of your eventual discovery.

Eventually, he leaves too, and you dress yourself once more and start to clean up the ignoble evidence of your lecherous degeneracy. You pick up the pens that lie on the floor, wipe up your cum which coats your desk in a monument to your shameful voyeurism. In a fit of disgust and self-loathing, you roar and crumple up all of your papers and throw them into the trash. All your important reports and documentation are backed up at your terminal, anyway, which you can properly clean off tomorrow. The proof of your sin is vanished, gone, and you are fine.

 

You take the rapid transit home, your predator’s eyes flitting from side to side to make sure nobody is looking at you, _they have to be looking at you you’re so fucking sick_ , and you are fine. You close the blinds after obsessively checking and checking again to make sure nobody followed you home to confront you with your depravity, and you are fine. You finally curl up in your concave bed and dream of nothing at all, and you are fine, you are fine, you are fine.


End file.
